


Lift the Wings

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: For the Love of a Meme [24]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Feel free to hate me now, Grab your torch and pitchforks!, Hurt/Comfort, I Went Down With This Ship, I hate me too, I just broke my own heart, Lore - Freeform, Loyalty, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Past Relationship(s), Racism, Rape Aftermath, Seriously read the links, Skyrim Kink Meme, Violence, War Crimes, some weird stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4194951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the attack on the Rift Imperial Camp, Fasendil believes he will die alone and forgotten. But Hadvar isn't giving up on his Legate, even if he has to lose everything else dear to get him back.</p><p><b>Important:</b> This won't make that much sense without reading <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4114818">Catch the Wind</a> first, but that may be rather difficult reading considering it deals with rape and other war crimes. This is much less heavy, but still has a goodly amount of angst.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>There is a (hopefully trigger-free) summary of Catch the Wind in the leadnotes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, the sequel/fix-it (that ended up ~~almost as long as~~ ~~just as long as~~ longer than the original! Huzzah! This one ran away from me. Several times.
> 
> Catch the Wind summary:  
>  _A band of Stormcloaks destroy the Rift Imperial Camp. Only three Legionnaires survive the initial attack (besides Hadvar, who happens to be running courier elsewhere at the time): Fasendil and two others (the other two are executed later, in Windhelm). Seeing only an Altmer commander, they assume he is a Thalmor plant and abuse him. The band is led by a man only called Stormblade - he is not the Dragonborn but otherwise his true identity is not revealed. The two others are sent to Windhelm ahead of Fasendil, before they journey as well. The abuse continues along the way, and Fasendil gradually loses hope entirely. In Windhelm, Fasendil is brought before Ulfric, who decides to try ransoming him. Except the Legion doesn't do ransoms or prisoner exchanges, and so Fasendil fully expects to die, either in prison or a public execution, as the story ends._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in case you were wondering where the story title came from, it's from Riverdance. Specifically, [this version.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QL2r6yG3XM)
> 
> _And how can the heart survive_   
>  _Can it stay alive_   
>  _If its love's denied for long?_

Hadvar crossed the border from Falkreath, walking his horse leisurely past the Stormcloak camp there. However much he ached to gallop the mare all the way to his own camp, the rebels were too close to the road; doubtlessly they would guess his purpose, even if the plain cloak he wore didn't fly back, revealing his identity to the world.

Once into Haemar's Pass, he urged the steady mare into a canter. That was the most he would risk, due to the ill-maintained switchbacks that characterized the road all the way into the Rift. Before the war, the Empire would have paid to keep the trade routes clear, but since the High King's demise the gold had dried up, and no one was willing to work the passes for nothing — which was all the Holds could pay.

The road was deserted between the two rival camps. Hadvar, though focused on guiding his horse, kept thinking forward to his return. He ached to see his friends again. Being stuck in the camp for months while battles were decided in the other Holds made for cranky soldiers, of course, but it also forged friendships deeper than mere camaraderie. Passing around a bottle, the ring of the quartermaster's hammer as comforting and familiar a sound as the voices of his fellows... he could imagine it now.

Then, of course, there was Fasendil.

Hadvar's heart pounded just that bit faster when his thoughts turned to the handsome Legate. While he was gone, running missives to Cipius with a stopover at Riverwood, he'd had a lot of time to think about their relationship. Though his family had been confused, if supportive, when he let it slip he was dating an elvish superior, Hadvar's own feelings were anything but. He had never been more sure of a relationship in his life.

Well, not since he had become a man, at least.

He shook himself away from that dark path as the old shack appeared on his left. An alchemist was living there when the camp first went up, before Hadvar was transferred, but now the structure was returning to the wild as things in Skyrim were wont to do without intervention. Nightshade plants crowded around the front door, and Hadvar shuddered. Nothing good came from purple petals.

The shack was gone from sight and mind a moment later as the road curved left. A jagged promontory sloped to join the soft earth of the Rift to the right, and the horse turned in that direction before Hadvar could prompt it. She knew the way home.

There was no warning, no indicator at all. Not even a feeling of unease in Hadvar's heart as he cleared the ridge and saw... nothing.

Nothing.

The horse slowed to a walk and then stopped, swishing her tail and flicking her ears as she snorted. Her sides were heaving between Hadvar's thighs, but he was fixed on the wrongness before him.

The camp was gone. The tents, the small forge, the other horses. All gone.

Hadvar's blood was rushing in his ears. For a moment his mind insisted they had packed up and left without him, for whatever reason, but as he slid from the mare and landed heavily on the unfeeling earth, something crunched beneath his boot.

It was a bit of blackened metal, twisted out of shape, but the longer Hadvar stared at it the more patches of silver he could see beneath the scorch marks. Silver.

The image of the Imperial dragon swam before his eyes unbidden. His breath caught in his chest, stabbing at his lungs. He _knew_ , then.

The mare snorted beside him as she pawed at the ground. Her hoof shifted away the thick layer of black soil — _ash_ , Hadvar's frozen mind supplied — and revealed the white and gray fragments scattered within.

Hadvar's stomach rolled, and he turned away. He needed to investigate.

He walked around the clearing, immediately ruling out a dragon attack. Dragons did not leave twin ruts in the soft earth; ruts so deep he wondered at what could have been so heavy. The anvil, he guessed.

Stormcloaks. That would explain the defilement of the Imperial symbol, and the wagon furrows. The bone fragments in the ash were too numerous for just the horses, and even two carts — he found the second set of ruts, shallower than the first, and the prints of many boots — couldn't carry all his friends.

His mind stopped then, as the constructed calm fell apart. He was alone. He was the last, by pure luck.

He tilted his head back and stared at the clouds, letting the tears come and the despair rule him.

Everyone was dead.

He stumbled over to the patient mare, wrapping his arms around her neck and feeling her heartbeat through his leathers. The steady thumping was a reassurance, and when he pulled away his eyes were still wet, but at least no longer acted as wellspring for tears. His breath still hitched on the inhale, but at least the wretched sobs no longer shook his body.

Only when the horse snorted again did he realize she was now nosing the ash pile. He tugged her head back with the reins and she sneezed, blowing away another layer of black soot and bone.

Beneath, buried in the remains of the camp and its inhabitants, was a tent support. The smooth wood was covered in ash but not burned at all. Intrigued, Hadvar reached down to pick one end up.

A leather strip wrapped around the pole a few inches from the end. Hadvar tugged at it, discovering that it was tied securely, but the two ends sticking out seemed to have been one loop at some point. Another long strip was a little over two feet away down the pole; it was the same.

_Curious_ , Hadvar thought. He peered closer at the object, trying to figure out what it was used for.

Smeared along the length between the two strips, dried blood was unmistakable.

The pole dropped to the ash with a soft _thump_. Hope and revulsion battled in Hadvar's heart. He knew what it had been used for, and also who it had probably been used _on_.

He swung up on the horse and turned west again, knowing what he had to do. Surely the General could help?

 

—o—o—o—

 

Fasendil had expected to be left to rot after the brief interrogation, as he knew nothing (or worse) would come from Solitude. As soon as it became obvious that the Legion's policies wouldn't change, he had expected to be executed, whether with ceremony or without.

He had never expected he would get _any_ visitors, much less the Jarl of Windhelm.

Having attained a strange state of living death — barely moving, barely breathing, reality a blissful blank while memories filled the space left behind — in the first three days he was in the prison, it was a terrible jolt to open his eyes for the first time what felt like a lifetime — an Altmer's lifetime — and have the world come sweeping in in the form of _him_.

Fasendil blinked at his visitor, sluggishly registering that he was no longer alone. It took a bit longer to comprehend that _they_  were alone, and this made even less sense; if they were coming to bring him to a true death, surely the Jarl wouldn't have come by himself. It was beneath him.

Ulfric, for his part, stared back, fully aware of his superiority. He _commanded_ it.

"Legate."

The way he said it made it clear he did not expect a reply, which Fasendil was just fine with. He didn't know if he'd be _able_ to reply. It seemed like such a dream.

"I want to know what happened in that camp."

Fasendil blinked slowly, trying to remember how to speak.

Ulfric seemed to realize his prisoner wouldn't be coherent anytime soon. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Were you raped?" He spat out the word, like it tasted foul. It probably did, Fasendil thought.

He managed to nod jerkily, and when Ulfric did not speak again, closed his eyes, trying to return to that trance of sun-sparkling seas and endless fields of gold wheat.

The soft sound of footsteps retreating up the stairs couldn't penetrate the fog that settled around him like the warmest blanket.


	2. Chapter 2

Hadvar left his horse with the stablemaster, pressing an extra septim into his palm for what the Nord suspected was the last bit of friendliness he would get in a long time.

It felt odd, being out of his Legion leathers, but at least the furs were warm. He had been spoiled by the Rift, he thought absently, before shaking his head to dispel it. He was on a mission. The last driving purpose of a man with nothing else to fight for.

The gate guards accosted him, as he had expected, but the knit square of wool, pure and white, stopped them cold when he pulled it from his pocket. They looked at him and at each other with such surprise and uncertainty that he wondered, not for the first time, if he was merely offering himself up for the slaughter. Surely Ulfric, the Nord of Nords, would have to honor this sacred tradition older than Talos.

One of the guards disappeared through the side gate used for after-hours emergencies, while the other took off her helmet, telling him to surrender his weapons.

"They're with the saddlebags. I assumed I wouldn't need them," he said quietly.

The guard's eyes flickered over his shoulder for a moment before returning, and Hadvar heard one of the soldiers that had gathered behind him scamper off. "You'll forgive me if I don't take chances," she said in challenge, perhaps having guessed who he was — or had been.

"I'd be surprised if you did," he replied. He knew the softness of his brogue was disarming, and he hoped to use it to effect. His hands remained firmly on the wool scrap, symbol of peace that predated the white flag, remaining utterly still while another guard approached from behind and searched him quickly and efficiently. He found the amulet nestled against Hadvar's heart, of course, but the gate guard merely raised an eyebrow at it when it was pulled into the light.

Hadvar wouldn't, couldn't explain.

"He's clear."

Just then the other gate guard returned with the news that the Jarl had offered his hospitality. The message was carefully phrased to make it seem Ulfric's initiative, but Hadvar was well aware that under Nordic custom his only options were to give refuge or to turn the supplicant away at the gate.

Whether he would take back that refuge remained to be seen.

_Nothing left to lose, except everything,_ he thought darkly as his little procession marched through the city and approached the Palace. He clutched the square in his palm, trusting in it as the best chance to protect him and his purpose. He was ushered into the dimly lit hall without ado, his escort replaced by another set of people watching his every move. Ulfric lounged on the throne at the far end, watching him as closely as his tense housecarl though the Jarl was not nearly as obvious about it.

When he finally stood before the throne, looking on Ulfric's face for the second time in his life, he wondered at how abruptly that life had turned around. Mere months before he had read a name on a list, one of many, expecting to watch the man and the cause die (and grieving already the innocent girl caught up in the whole mess). And now that same man stood in judgment of _him_.

Though Ulfric's expression did not change, Hadvar had not the slightest doubt that he was recognized.

"My Jarl," he murmured, hand gripping the scratchy wool tighter before he forced himself to relax it. He'd never spoken to a Jarl in his own court before, though he knew the basic protocols hospitality demanded.

Of course, Ulfric flaunted protocols as a morning warm-up. "I know you."

Hadvar inclined his head in acknowledgment, resigning himself to being led wherever Ulfric wanted to go topic-wise. "Hadvar Sorensen, former Praefect of the Imperial Legion. I was at Helgen."

"Mm. You read the list."

"I did."

"Well? What message has your General sent you to deliver?"

His tone gave Hadvar pause. It held no derision or the slightest bit of anger, even on Tullius' title. Hadvar knew his stated rank had been noted, though Ulfric had chosen to make him clarify outright. "My message is my own. I was honorably discharged a week ago; I no longer carry the Legion's banner nor represent its cause."

"But you still believe in the Empire?"

Hadvar bit the inside of his cheek. This wasn't about him, it never had been. "Aye."

"Foolish child," Galmar muttered, too loudly for the echo-prone room, and Hadvar shot him a glare.

"Or a courageous man, Galmar." Ulfric lounged back further on his throne. "So your purpose here is yours, and not Tullius'. What then, would you ask of me?"

_Breathe. The most dangerous man in Skyrim right now just called you brave._ Hadvar palmed the woolen scrap like a lifeline and looked the Jarl in the eye. "I would ask for my lover back."

"Your lover?" Galmar asked while Ulfric raised his chin to rest his head on the back of the throne, staring down his impressive nose at Hadvar.

"Legate Fasendil of the Rift." He only barely caught the look that passed between the General and the Jarl, continuing before he lost his nerve. "His... his remains if possible. Any effects. I know officer armor is valuable if broken down, but—"

Ulfric raised a hand, stopping him. "Fasendil, you say?"

"If you mean to say you've _lain with_ that elf..." Galmar started, but cut himself off at some signal from Ulfric that Hadvar didn't see.

"Fasendil. Aye." The phrasing Galmar's protest was nagging at him, but he didn't dare get his hope up that the Legate was still alive. Hope was a dangerous thing.

Ulfric grunted, abruptly changing the subject. "Do you regret Helgen?"

_There isn't a Helgen survivor on Nirn who doesn't regret that day_ , Hadvar thought with a wince. Just the most distant recollection of it made him want to lock himself in a tomb and take his chances with the draugr. At least they couldn't fly.

But he knew that wasn't what Ulfric meant, so with a sigh he answered honestly. "Reading Ralof's name... and the poor girl whose first impression of Skyrim was the chopping block—"

"That 'poor girl' turned out to be the Dragonborn," Galmar cut in gruffly.

"So she did, and a supporter of the Empire. Even I don't understand that." Hadvar shook his head. The girl walked the Golden Path, that was to be sure, but her questionable reasoning was turning the tide of the war. "So yes, Jarl Ulfric, I do regret it." _But can you honestly say that changes anything? Or that we mere mortals were ever in control of any prophecy or Divine's plan?_ he added silently.

Ulfric nodded, stroking the bear pelt draped over one armrest. "Ralof told me she escaped Helgen with you."

"Aye." He remembered that confrontation in the courtyard well. He had been sure the girl would follow his former friend. Imagine his surprise when she burst into the Keep after him, grinning through the blood — of the Stormcloak who had been executed before her — coating half her face as if Ralof had never been an option.

The glimmer in Ulfric's eyes set off every warning bell in Hadvar's head. "You were friends?"

"As much as two boys of similar ages in a small town can be, I suppose," he hedged, really not wanting to discuss that heartache at the moment.

The Jarl grunted again, softer this time. He lapsed into thought, and no one interrupted him even when the near-silence became uncomfortable and Hadvar had managed to fidget the wool into unraveling. Finally he rose from his throne, gesturing to Hadvar to follow. Galmar trailed after, but the other guards were left behind.

The strange party entered a door on the right side of the hall and descended stairs that led underground, opening out into an empty barracks with rows and rows of neatly made beds. At the other end was another door, and this led to the dungeon.

Hadvar expected to be led to the chest that held prisoner belongings, but Ulfric strode right past it and up to a cell. He stood to the side, allowing Hadvar to walk with trepidation up to the bars and peer inside. Galmar came up behind him, blocking him in, but all Hadvar could focus on was the huddled figure of his friend and lover.

Fasendil was alive, but barely. Half-hidden in a shadow in the corner of the cell, knees drawn up to his chest and nails biting into his legs, he looked to be trapped in a nightmare. Faint, shallow breaths barely misted the freezing air, eyes closed but face twitching at the corners in flickers of fear. He did not react at all to his visitors. Hadvar searched what little of his lover's form he could see, but it appeared the mer was whole, though not entirely healthy. Peach fuzz couldn't hide the long, thin, scabbing cuts on his skull. Whoever had shaved his head hadn't been very gentle about it.

"What...?" Hadvar breathed. This was bad. Very bad. The bars were freezing under his hands, but he couldn't loosen his grip.

"According to the healer who accompanied the attack party, he was raped multiple times before he got to Windhelm." Ulfric's voice was like distant thunder.

"You... you..." Hadvar couldn't breathe anymore.

"I have sentenced every soldier who participated to twenty lashes and latrine duty, and stripped the commander of his rank. We do not stoop to Imperial and Thalmor tactics."

He finally managed to pry his face from the bars, turning slowly to look at the Jarl. He wanted to hit something, preferably that impassive mug, but his hands were shaking too badly and his arms wouldn't lift. "Who was this commander?" His brogue was still soft, but only as soft as the fur of a sabre cat.

Galmar shifted warningly behind him, but Hadvar didn't care.

"I will release Fasendil to you on the condition that you don't rejoin the Legion." Damn him and his refusal to answer the question.

Hadvar barked a humorless laugh. "I can't anyway. The General may have discharged me with honor, but he did say I wasn't welcome back. Apparently I fall apart easily and chase after lost causes to the detriment of the mission." He laughed again, this time with the bite of hysteria. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I've only ever been a soldier."

"You're young. You have the best chance of all of us of finding a way," Ulfric said quietly.

Hadvar turned back to the cell, feeling like Ulfric had exposed something he had kept hidden for a long time. Perhaps the man wasn't as much the monster he was made out to be, but Hadvar still wanted to kick his ass.

Even if the pain the Stormcloaks had forced upon Fasendil would never be avenged, it would be enough to have him back. He did not stop to wonder at how quickly he had come to trust Ulfric's word. "I swear upon my honor that I will not rejoin the Legion." It felt odd: doom and liberation at the same time. He could do anything now; apprentice under his uncle or even travel the world sating Fasendil's wanderlust.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updated 8/6/15: Added a detail that should have been in there in the first place, as well as a small part that somehow got cut off the end. Sorry for any confusion.

Ulfric motioned to a guard, who came forward and unlocked the cell before retreating again. The barred door swung inward with a scraping sound, but Hadvar forced himself to enter the dark space, chills skittering up his spine. A deep breath, then another, and when he blinked he was hovering over Fasendil, reaching out to lightly stroke his face.

The mer jerked back and his eyes popped open, though unfocused. His pupils were blown, as if he had been drugged or was sick. When Hadvar reached forward again to tilt Fasendil's face up, he felt the fever burning under sallow skin and fresh sweat atop layers of old.

Fasendil focused slowly, but no spark of recognition lit his eyes.

"It's me, love. Hadvar." He had to resist the urge to storm back out of the cell and punch Ulfric in the balls for letting Fasendil get so bad. No one deserved such treatment.

A slow blink, then Fasendil's tongue darted out to lick his lips. He tried to speak, but it came out as a wheeze that turned into a hacking cough. Hadvar knelt to hold the trembling mer, heedless of the grime on the floor, and when Fasendil finally sat back up his eyes were red-rimmed and dull, but at least they met Hadvar's without trouble.

"Gods, I'm so sorry," Hadvar said, rubbing circles on Fasendil's back, feeling ribs through the thin sackcloth and thinner skin. "If I had been there—" He broke off, as Fasendil had suddenly grabbed his other hand, the one that was on the mer's shoulder.

"You... would be dead," Fasendil rasped.

"You mean— oh Divines." Hadvar wrapped his arms around Fasendil and lifted him up; he hoped action would allow him to delay thinking about what had happened, both to his fellow soldiers — his friends — and his lover. He backed out of the cell with the mer in his arms, carrying him like a Cyrodiilic bride, and left the dungeon as quickly as he could without running.

Hadvar was strong, and had been able to pick Fasendil up before in happier times, but now his Legate was as light as a bird and just as frail in the bones. Eyes half-closed, he seemed to be drifting off again. Hadvar let him.

Though Hadvar was fully prepared to transfer his clothes to Fasendil and rely on his own Nord blood to keep him from freezing to death while he marched through Windhelm and beyond in his smalls, he was pleasantly surprised to find a maid waiting for him in the main hall with a fur cloak. She passed it to him wordlessly and scurried away before he could thank her.

Hadvar wrapped his lover up in the oversized garment and stepped out into the snowy evening, weighing whether he should rent a room at the inn or make straight for Whiterun. Maybe that friendly elf at the stables would let him stay there; it would certainly be preferable to trying to sleep while off-duty Stormcloaks got drunk upstairs or camping out in the wilderness with Fasendil as maligned as he was. He passed the inn, resisting the siren call of the candle in the window.

The city doors scraped shut behind him, and some measure of dread left his heart. The walk across the bridge was a tense affair, what with the walls lined with Stormcloaks with their eyes on him instead of the road or the skies. Hadvar kept his back straight and his eyes straight ahead; he half-expected a rock or two, but none came.

The stablemaster was locking the horses' stalls one by one, giving each a pat on the nose as he did so. Another High Elf, a woman, was sweeping away the loose straw. She saw Hadvar and Fasendil first, letting out a surprised "oh!" and dropping her broom.

"Here, here," the stablemaster cried, coming forward to support Fasendil's legs. "Ari, dear, open the door."

Her finely trimmed eyebrows shot up at the idea, and her long-suffering sigh only cemented the impression of scandal, but she did as bid, and they carried Fasendil into the house.

It was a small dwelling, obviously not built for High Elves, but cozy and more importantly, sweltering inside. The stablemaster guided Fasendil onto a long table and, muttering to himself, darted about the house's corners, coming back with arms full of bandages, among other things Hadvar couldn't hope to identify. "Ari, boil water for me, please. Not that one. The big pot."

Hadvar, standing uselessly by Fasendil's head, could only watch as the Altmer worked. He'd merely hoped for shelter, not healing. When he opened his mouth to protest — he couldn't possibly afford care — the stablemaster seemed to sense it, shooting him a firm look from where he was bent over the supplies at Fasendil's side.

At her husband's soft but insistent word, Ari left the water to boil and stood across from her husband, drawing back the fur cloak to examine their patient's body with clinical detachment. Her hand alighted on his neck first.

Hadvar thought she was feeling Fasendil's heartbeat. He had _not_ expected the golden glow to seep from her palm, lighting up unnaturally pale skin and spreading down to envelop Fasendil's body. Hadvar could feel the warmth from where he stood, the gentle pulse of healing magic carrying with it something else. He felt... at peace.

"Surface Restoration with a calming effect," Ari said, moving her hands up to concentrate the magic on Fasendil's head. Hadvar watched the scabs break off, then the open wounds knit together, leaving patches of his scalp hairless, but also unblemished. She moved down, the glow going with her, and as the magic moved away Hadvar felt a wave of exhaustion crash over him.

"Ulundil," he heard Ari say as his vision swam.

He crumpled, but hands caught him. Lean but strong hands with callouses half-dragged, half-carried him a short distance, to a rickety bed that was just about the most comfortable thing in the world at that moment in Hadvar's opinion. He drifted off to the soft chime of Restoration magic in the next room.

 

—o—o—o—

 

Hadvar woke blearily. A warm body was molded along his side, and for a confused moment he was sure it was 194 again. He and Ralof were eighteen, not yet blooded as men in the Nordic way, but excited for all life in Skyrim had to offer. Ralof's cousin had not yet been stolen away, Hadvar was not yet ready to join the Legion, and tensions in the wake of the White Gold Concordat had not yet burst into all-out war. They were not yet even fully _aware_ of the tensions, even. For a beautiful moment he was back in 194, camping out under the stars with his first love, the one he had been so sure of. But the beautiful moment shattered as he became aware of the discrepancies in his hopeful scenario: it was blissfully warm, it was not a bedroll beneath him, and he was tucked into the shoulder of the other man, who was taller than he was by several inches at least.

He raised his head, squinting into the candlelight, and the memories returned, slinking back into his mind as if ashamed they had ever left. Ralof was a traitor, Skyrim was in chaos, and the puppy love of boyhood was just that.

And Fasendil was, by the Divines, alive.

The healthy yellow was back in his skin, his face smoothed out in some blissful dream or non-dream, and his heartbeat was steady against Hadvar's questing fingers. At the Nord's touch, he stirred, eyelashes fluttering before he sank back into sleep. Hadvar let him be.

A door opened and shut somewhere, and Hadvar craned his neck to see Ari come in from the front room, picking her way across the floor with a bowl in one hand. She stopped when she saw Hadvar's open eyes. A nervous, but soft, laugh escaped her lips. "Ah, you're awake I see. Um—" She picked at a thread of her worn dress.

"Hadvar," he said quietly. "And this is Fasendil."

"Ah. I am Arivanya. My husband who you met yesterday is Ulundil." She regained her confidence, squaring her shoulders and walking the rest of the way to stand by the bed, setting the soup down on a small table.

"Listen, I can't begin to thank you enough for your kindness. Both yours and your husband's."

Arivanya sighed heavily, not meeting his eyes. "It is the least I could do. I was here when Stormblade brought him in. I couldn't do anything then; I'm just glad I could now."

Hadvar laid back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Stormblade. If only I knew who that bastard was..."

"I don't know his real name. He was some kind of general in the Jarl's army, but I hear he's been demoted now. My husband has his horse in the stables. He might know who he is." She clenched her fists. "The wounds I had to heal... If you find him, don't show any mercy."

"I won't," he promised.

Arivanya peered at Fasendil's sleeping face, then opened the wardrobe and pulled out several pieces of clothing, feeling the fabric before settling on a loose long-sleeved tunic and leggings which she placed on the nightstand. "Not a word," she warned Hadvar. "I just wish we had something warmer to spare."

The Nord swallowed his protest, instead thanking her quietly.

"You're welcome." She left, closing the outside door behind her.

Hadvar tucked his head back into Fasendil's neck, listening to his steady breathing. Something so simple, yet so significant. He knew he should get up, go find Ulundil, but he felt he could have listened to the deep pull and push of air forever.

"Such nice people," Fasendil murmured sleepily.

The Nord pulled back, startled, to find a smile tugging at Fasendil's relaxed mouth. His eyes opened in the next moment as Hadvar dove in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around Fasendil's head and sucking hungrily. When he pulled back he realized the Legate had not moved at all, just laid there blinking at him.

"Where are we?"

Hadvar took his turn to blink. "The stables outside Windhelm. I worried to carry you any farther, with the cold—"

"You... you came for me. Unless this is another dream..." Fasendil closed his eyes again.

"No, love." He grabbed Fasendil's limp hand, rubbing the palm. "It isn't. I promise it isn't."

"If you say so."

Hadvar's heart ached at his lover's tone, and he rethought asking what Stormblade looked like. If it sent shivers lancing up his arms to imagine it, Fasendil's experience was enough to freeze marrow in the bone.

"I'm here," he whispered.

Fasendil did not answer, not even when Hadvar slipped out of the covers and pecked him on the forehead. He said nothing as heavy footsteps retreated to the next room, and the door to the wide world, full of wolves and wicked men, opened and shut.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Please Read:**
> 
>  
> 
> I updated the last chapter to include a bit that somehow got lost in the shuffle of posting. It's at the very end, and isn't terribly long but is fairly important. Please read that part (everything after "'I won't,' he promised") before you read this. Thanks!

The snow was drifting down from a gray sky, gentle for the moment but likely to turn smothering later, in the afternoon. Ulundil had already cleared the landing, balconies and steps of the previous night's heavenly offering; it hadn't been much for the season but wind like a dragon's wings had swept most of it up against the eastern side of the house. Hadvar concluded it must have been some storm, looking from the balcony at the snow he could nearly walk straight out on top of and the bare, if frozen, ground further out where the Khajiit traders were camped the day before.

Ulundil was down at the stables proper, half-hidden by the roof. From his angle of view Hadvar couldn't see who the mer was talking with nor hear their words; he hesitated to interrupt, thinking it was a customer. He leaned on the railing instead, waiting and thinking. 

Perhaps he should just take his lover and his horse and run, leaving Windhelm and Skyrim herself behind. Surely Fasendil would have a recommendation on where to go. Hammerfell, perhaps, since they wouldn't have to worry about a Thalmor presence. He had seen a painting of a Stros M'Kai landscape once, and it looked like a lovely place. Likely much warmer than he could handle, though. He'd know when he got there. 

What would he really achieve, hunting down Stormblade? 

But Fasendil had been dealt a grave wound, and Hadvar felt compelled to defend his lover's honor and his own. It was the Nordic way — to avenge such a crime against a loved one was ingrained in him. 

_I will ask Fasendil_ , he decided. _It happened to_ him, _after all._

Just as he turned back to the house, a startled shout from Ulundil made him whip around again. The mer had stumbled backwards into view, hands held up as he tried to ward off a flurry of blows. Hadvar sprinted down the stairs, nearly slipping on the last one just as Ulundil went down in a puff of snow, his attacker on top of him. 

"Get off him!" he shouted, reaching the pair. He grabbed the assailant's arm with one hand and yanked him up, shoving him back. The man stumbled from the force but kept his feet. 

Hadvar expected the other man to rush him. But he didn't. Hadvar took the chance, briefly focusing on his face instead of his feet. 

He inhaled sharply. 

It was Ralof. 

The blond was ragged, even moreso than at Helgen. His hair hung limply around his unshaven jaw, his warrior-braid coming undone at the end. Bloodshot blue eyes wavered unsteadily around Hadvar's face. His regular Stormcloak uniform had been switched for the bear-themed outfit of the command, but it was stained, ripped, and missing the headgear. 

Something pricked the back of Hadvar's mind when he saw that uniform. Ralof was an officer. An officer... Still, his heart swelled with something like relief and dread mixed together at the sight of his old lover. 

Ulundil — who had scrambled up and was inching closer to the brunet, barely noticed by either of the Nords — squeaked out through the bruises on his neck, "that's Stormblade!" 

Hadvar's heart stuttered, leaping into his throat and threatening to push its way out of his mouth. No other thought would enter his mind but denial, denial because Ulundil had to be wrong. Surely Ralof, even as wide as the gap between them had grown, even as much of a stranger he had become since Hadvar had left home — surely his old friend wouldn't do what Stormblade had done. 

But Ralof had taken on a peculiar expression at the accusation, his eyes darkening and face scrunching as if he had bitten into something sour. 

_No, no,_ , Hadvar thought, stomach now plummeting; he still felt like throwing up. He took a step forward, hands shaking until he balled them into fists, then another step, and another, until Ralof's back hit the wooden pole at the corner of the stable — a horse nickered — and Hadvar's blood sang red-hot in his veins. It was like watching through a window; a snowstorm raged outside, but the blizzard couldn't touch him, snug and warm in his house. It was like he was a ghost, separated from his own body. It wasn't _him_ , this snarling, red-faced man, was it? 

The force of his fist slamming into his old friend's jaw lanced up his arm, and the spell was broken. 

Ralof grunted and fell to the side, catching himself on the low door to a stall. The horse within tossed its head, sides heaving. Hadvar's world had narrowed down to himself and Ralof, and he did not pause to wonder at how history repeated itself, though with a twist. He closed in again for the attack, one hand finding purchase in Ralof's tangled hair and the other snapping up into the blond's nose with a _crunch_. Blood, sticky and thick, gushed over his hand. With great effort, he pulled back, dropping a groaning Ralof onto the bare ground, and stood there, chest heaving, waiting for his power of speech to return. 

"You—" He swallowed, tried again. "How could you?" There was more he wanted to say, of course, but the words stuck in his throat and stung at his eyes. 

Ralof wasn't trying to defend himself. Did he feel guilt? Or did he know it didn't matter — that no sweet words would make it right? Hadvar realized he didn't want to hear whatever explanation Ralof could come up with anyway. 

Ralof, too, seemed to sense the question has changed from demanding an answer to rhetorical. He knelt, hunched over, trying to stem the blood spurting from his nose. After a moment, he worked his jaw and spat out a tooth, glancing warily up at the brunet. His face was tired, resigned. 

And Hadvar lost all desire to pummel him into a pulp. It wasn't worth it. 

"You are nothing," he whispered, unclenching his fists with great effort. Then, louder: "I'm leaving, Ralof. For good this time." With that, he turned on his heel and stalked back to the house, intending to rouse Fasendil and take him far, far away from Skyrim and its problems. Surely his lover would get better in time. 

Ulundil burst from the house as he reached the top step. The stablemaster's hands were busy with a pack, but his eyes were on the road to Windhelm. "You should go now, Hadvar. The guard patrol will be by any minute. This should get you to Whiterun, at least." He shoved the pack into Hadvar's hands, then poked his head back in the door. "Ari! Come on, dear!" 

His wife bustled out, pushing a sullen Fasendil before her. He was bundled up in so much fur he was fairly unrecognizable, and Hadvar had only enough time for the briefest of prayers that it would be enough if they were waylaid by a blizzard before they were off, the citizens hustling them along. 

Ralof was gone, the only sign of his presence being the blood on the snow and the purpling bruises on Ulundil's neck. "Oh good, he left us his horse," the mer remarked, saddling the dapple-gray animal at record speed. "Guards are coming. They likely won't chase you, but I'll buy you some time anyway. Go, go!" 

And go they did.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue of sorts. Contains much Lore and Lore references. Also the Major Character Death. Much notes at bottom.

_37 years later. The city of Lainlyn, northern coast of Hammerfell._

"He will be sailing for the Far Shores soon," the priestess of Tu'whacca murmured as she stepped from the wait-room, a first-hand grief in the depths of her brown eyes that she did not try to hide. Well, of course; his husband was loved. More loved than he, but the Redguards had come to accept him, and passed that acceptance to their children through the course of their short lives, and Fasendil had become as much a fixture of the city as the great statue of Ruptga by the oasis. Were circumstances different, he would gladly have hung up his sword here.

But Hadvar...

He'd known this day would come. He knew men exhausted their life-energy far faster than mer. He _knew_ , dammit, so why was his breath catching now, his own aged heart a hollow in his chest?

He closed his eyes, breathed in the comforting smell of Restoration, and stepped into the wait-room.

"I..." His voice echoed in the far-too-large space. He knew why there were so many chairs, at the moment tucked into the corners and stacked on each other haphazardly, but he was the only family Hadvar had left, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment he _hated_ the Redguards; how could they stick him in a room intended for them and their extended networks of kin-upon-kin? It wasn't fair. How could he have lived so much longer and end up with only Hadvar to wait with him, had he been the one on the deathbed? How could Hadvar deserve this, Hadvar who stuck by him through _that_ —

"You have that look again."

Though hoarse from the medicine (medicine designed not to cure, but to delay the inevitable; these Redguards knew their death), Hadvar's voice cut across that dangerous road his thoughts were going down. Though snow-maned (snow! that was one thing he had not seen in too long), pale as when they first met, parchment-skin crossed with lines more meaningful to him than those on the Elder Scrolls, Hadvar was smiling gently. The look those eyes still boggled the mer's mind. Fasendil could not see what was so lovable about himself in that moment.

"Come here." Hadvar raised a hand, simple golden ring glinting in the sunlight through the window. And though Fasendil's eyes burned, he took shaky steps around the bed to sit down on the feather mattress (blessed by priests of Tava) and intertwine their fingers.

They had married at a temple to Morwha nearly 35 years before. He had thought himself broken, tainted, but Hadvar saw something he couldn't. At the time he had thought the marriage a way to ease the suspicions heaped upon him for his race, but through the years, through the waiting and the watching and the _healing_ , it had become less a cover and far more a shelter.

His vision blurred and then he was crying, great heaving sobs that tore at his body as much as his soul. He curled up next to Hadvar, careful not to crush that fragile body, and though he was aware he was wasting precious time, he couldn't stop, couldn't breathe. Hadvar just smiled sadly, holding him as best as he was able.

He was always so patient with him, his Hadvar.

When his sobs had quieted on their own, Fasendil sat up, aching all over, and stared into the slack face of his husband. Oh _Mara_ , he hadn't— he hadn't said goodbye! "Hadvar..." he whispered, a prayer moreso than an address.

"Still here," came the breathy words, then Hadvar heaved a great sigh. "Oh, love, it's beautiful..."

"What?" Fasendil choked out, but Hadvar continued as if he had not heard.

"Heaven's Wheel Temple..." he breathed, the lines on his face easing somehow. Then Hadvar's eyes opened again, sharp and clear for the first time in a decade, and young as they had only been before they had fled Skyrim. His voice, oh, that brogue he'd had long ago was back, the brogue that even Hadvar didn't know the origin of. "Love, we can be together. Listen."

Fasendil didn't dare to hope that this wasn't the last hallucinogenic energy-surge of a dying man — he had seen that too often on the battlefield and off — but he listened, because Hadvar was gripping his hand in desperation.

"That Tower, in the Bay. Adamantine. When I... Get there, however you can. The island has Thalmor on it, but you will be able to get past them. Hurry, they are close... Get to the door..." His voice was fading, and Fasendil leaned forward to listen despite his earlier thoughts. "The way will open to you. Find the Vault. Find the Stone. The way will o—"

A force like a punch, like magic, struck Fasendil in the chest and he fell backwards onto the floor. He sat up to see Hadvar arched off the bed, face lit with Divine light, then a shudder swept through the room and Hadvar. With a final sigh of utter peace, he closed his eyes, and collapsed.

Shaking, mind a-scatter, Fasendil rose to his knees. Hadvar... Hadvar was gone. But his words remained. Unforgettable, undeniable.

A whisper in the curtains now: "Trust in Akatosh. Trust in me."

His heart swelling with purpose that was not quite his own, Fasendil rose fully and closed Hadvar's wide eyes — eyes that had seen the Divine? — then swept from the room, startling the priestess of Tu'whacca. She made to question him, but he was singularly focused. He saw it in her face as he swept past: the bright Dawn of Akatosh as she _knew_ ; and she called after, "Tall Papa bless your steps, wayfarer!"

Though he knew not the path he was taking, the dockmaster took one look at him upon approach and repeated the Tu'whaccan priestess' blessing. Fasendil did not question. He took the sailboat he was offered, letting the Divine or Divines lead him towards the great Tower out in the Bay.

True to word, the island of Balfiera was crawling with Thalmor, but he strode through them like a ghost. Or perhaps they were the ghosts.

And he came to the doorless base of the Tower, built like White-Gold but immeasurably older, and the ancient, impassable stone slid down without noise at his touch.

He stepped into the darkness. And then another step, and another, and the door rose up behind him, but he kept walking, winding down upon passageways never trod by man, mer, or beast.

Though he knew not the Stone, he knew it was the key. Something was here, a power not used since the beginning of Time... Something the Thalmor were after.

He would show them the true unmaking of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lainlyn was an actual place in TES II: Daggerfall.
> 
> [Here](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:The_Towers) is a rundown on the Towers. [Here](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Gods#Pantheons) is a rundown on the (rough) equivalents between the pantheons, notably the Redguard and Imperial ones. Essentially, Tu'whacca = Arkay, Morwha = Mara, Ruptga/Tall Papa = Akatosh, and Tava = Kynareth.
> 
> Note that the idea of a specific afterlife for the Blades is not mine. I believe Morninglight came up with it. In any case, that is where I got it from. It was such a lovely idea that I decided to use it and tweak it a little. Here, Heaven's Wheel Temple is the afterlife for the Blades and various Heroes chosen by the Divines (the Hero of Kvatch from Oblivion is there in canons where they did not become Sheogorath, for example). The name invokes the style of the other two known Blades temples (cloud, sky, heaven, etc. + noun) and references the same [Wheel](http://www.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Aurbis) as is found in the Book of the Dragonborn.
> 
> Of course, take Hadvar's reference to it as you will.
> 
> Have any questions? Post them, I'll try to explain stuffs if I can. I'm no expert on Lore, but I know my own story. I think.


End file.
